Outside, the village of Kirovka was just beginning to stir. The smell of fresh rye bread drifted from the bakery, mingling with the crisp scent of pine. In the distance, a rooster announced the start of another day. Olia loved these mornings—quiet, full of promise, and brimming with the simple rhythm of rural life.
“Do you think they’ll accept her?” whispered Misha, eyes wide.
“The river has taught me many things,” he said, pulling a glistening fish from the water. “It flows around stones, finds its way past obstacles, and never forgets where it began. Remember, no matter where you go, you carry your river with you.”
